Battle of Traftin Valley
by JimdeGriz
Summary: The Battle of Traftin Valley was a historical event from my D&D campaign world, taking place roughly 500 years ago, marking the final battle of the Lebane Commonwealth and the establishment of the 'modern' world. By this point it has become more legend than fact and this story is an attempt at writing in the style of a bard retelling the legend at a tavern.


Battle of Traftin Valley

Justin, the last Warlord of Lebane, gazed down the valley upon the host opposing him. 40,000 men in front of him and a mere 7,000 behind, the last of Lebane's Legions, all that remained after 6 months of civil war. Now the Commonwealth that had stretched from the Vang to the Sea was in ruins and the combined might of her enemies had assembled for the kill.

Justin was surrounded by his chief commanders, men and women of high valour and great renown, but even so their spirits were low. Each knew that this would be their final battle, that there could be no victory here.

At length Justin spoke. "We hold the high ground, but it will make no difference. I see the banner of Osbe, of Darieum and proud Varia. But, Melphia and Nortkis have not yet arrived. When they do we will face ten times our number, we cannot hold. Retreating behind the city walls would buy us but weeks, no relief will come."

"But there is still a chance, even if we might not live to see it. If we can hurt them enough to keep the city safe today, if we can hurt them enough that all lust for battle is extinguished, then even if we fall, the city might yet be saved."

"My comrades, return to your troops, prepare them for battle. Be ready to advance on my signal and if I don't see you after the battle, I will see you in the afterlife."

Offering one last solemn salute, the commanders return to their units, only Paulus the Red and Marcus of Ravina remained and so Lebane's greatest General, her greatest Solider and her greatest Cavalryman stood alone in front of their foe.

"We're not getting out of this one are we." Marcus stated, his usual humour sedated.

"Unlikely." Paulius responded. He paused and then turned to Justin, placing a hand on his shoulder. "If this is our last battle, know that I am honoured to die beside you and if you find yourself riding through the fields of the afterlife this evening, know that we will be riding alongside you, in death as in life."

Justin nodded and grasped his friend's arm. "Many a time we have fought against terrible odds, many a time we have triumphed when we should have perished. If today is to be the end of that story, let us make it an end worth of remembrance." The three exchanged grim nods and then turned and strode back to their own lines.

The thin blue line of Lebanian soldiers awaited them, few in number, but strong in purpose, survivors of dozens of battles and bound together by a comradeship forged in the heat of battle. In their hearts they knew they were doomed, but they would not run. Justin surveyed the ranks and nodded in satisfaction.

"My soldiers, time is short for our enemies is near and grows stronger by the minute. They think we cannot withstand them, they think they will smash our lines and sack Lebane by the evening. But they are wrong! I look at our lines and I pity our foe. Look at who they face, look at the banners that adorn our host, all ten Legions are represented here; Legions whose exploits are legend, Legions who very names unman our foe. Know this, today you fight for more than just your country, you fight for your families, your wives, your children, for each other. Down there is an army that would destroy all of that if allowed, are you going to let them?"

A roar of defiance rose from the host as swords and spears hammering on shields. Justin waited for the noise to subside and then drew his sword.

"Then once more I ask of you, for one last time. Follow me!"

The line surged forwards, 7,000 Lebanians marched down the valley towards their foe, the pace steady, the line ordered. Below them the Coalition's camp became a hive of activity, but their general, the renowned Varian, King Reynolds II, had foreseen this and soon the first line of his troops were formed up and moving off to intercept the Lebanians. The rest, held in reserve with the King himself.

The two lines meet with a fearful crash, shield to shield, blade to blade. The Coalition was confident, confident of their skills and with three times as many men in the fight. But the valley walls hemmed in the fight, preventing them from bringing their numbers to bear and though they fought with bravery, they faced men fighting with desperation, their backs to the wall and no hope of life but through victory. Slowly the Lebanians pushed forward, slowly the Coalition banners were pushed back, until suddenly the host broke and ran for the safety of their comrades at the end of the valley.

"After them!" Justin ordered, his own sword red with his enemies' blood, his shield battered by their blows. "They must not regroup!"

But the Lebanians were winded and weighed down by their arms and armour and could not catch their retreating foe. Nor were they given time, King Reynolds' second line was already advancing up the valley, breaking ranks smoothly they allowed the fugitives to pass and then reformed, presenting an unbroken line of spears and shields as they closed on the Lebanian line. Now it was the Lebanian's turn to give ground, forced back by the undeniable force of King Reynolds' hand picked reserve. But they did not give ground easily, their best to the front they made their foes pay for every inch of blood soaked ground, no quarter asked, none given.

Those watching would later describe it as the Lebanian's finest moment. As their generals fell, as order became disorder, they simply closed their ranks and fought on. First as legions, then as battalions, then companies and finally as squads and pairs, they grimly fought on, besieged but not defeated.

In the centre of the melee fought Lebane's best. Justin's picked bodyguard, men of proven skill and valour exchanged blows with their foes while his Golden Dragon banner, still flew defiantly overhead. But even the bravest and most skilful can only fight for so long, and slowly they were whittled down. First Geoff the Boarslayer fell, a spear busting through his breast plate, and then courageous Thomas, first man over the walls of Falmar, was carried to the rear, blood poring from a head wound. Then Penelope the victor of Norfelt Field and Magnus of Aquila until only Justin, Paulus and Marcus remained standing. Then the lines parted momentarily and a figure in bronze armour stepped into sight.

"You've fought bravely, but the day is ours." King Reynolds said with an outstretched hand. "Save your men's lives, surrender."

The three swapped glances, it was Paulus who spoke first. "Sir, as I know you would never abandon Varia, know that I will never abandon Lebane. Twice we have crossed blades now; twice we have not come to a conclusion. This time, let only one of us leave this place."

Reynolds frowned, disappointed. "So be it, clear us a space and let us decide this contest once and for all."

By unspoken agreement a circle opened up between the two lines as all nearby stopped to watch the duel. The two greatest swords masters of the era, facing each other in mortal contest. Paulus drew first blood, a darting strike opening a shallow cut on Reynolds' thigh, but soon he too was wounded by a lightning slash to the forearm. The two combatants circled, equally matched they traded blows faster than the eye could see, yet neither could gain an advantage.

Paulus drew back, catching his breath. He was wounded a near dozen times and his shield arm was numb from absorbing blows, he knew he would need to end the battle soon. But Reynolds would not give him time to breath and sprang forward with his blade high. With his shield, Paulus pushed the King's blow up, then crouching low he slashed out, his blade biting deep into the Reynold's leg. A hush settled over the observers as the King fell to the ground; all held their breath as Paulus stepped forward and with a single thrust to the heart, ended the contest.

A groan rose from the ranks of the Coalition, the ranks drew back from the bloodied corpse of their champion. Paulus took a moment, closing the eyes of his fallen opponent. He then stood and faced his enemy with a simple question.

"Who's next?"

Seeing the foe hesitate Justin was more direct. "What are you waiting for? Into them!" The Lebanians went forward once more, their hearts soared, victory finally seemed within their grasp. As the Lebanians' spirits rose, so the Coalitions' sank, their champion dead and their enemy seemed no nearer to defeat. Cries of "forwards" died on their lips, replaced by cries of "back". First individuals broke for the rear, then groups until the entire host was in full flight.

The Lebanians didn't have the energy to pursue, a mere 2,000 remained in the line and hardly one was unwounded. They hardly dared believe it over, that they lived. But their hearts sank, as down from the hills marched the banners of Melphia and Nortkis, their combined host close behind them.

"Get them into line!" Justin ordered, but no-one moved.

"We can't do that again." Paulus replied. "We're done."

"I know that! But they do not." Justin replied, gesturing at the enemy lines. "Now get them into line."

Slowly the Lebanians responded, tired, bloody, spent and exhausted from a long exchange of blows, only pride kept them on their feet as they formed ranks and marched towards the combined ranks of the Melphian and Nortmen.

Had those ranks, but known, they could have ended the war then and there. But they looked at the bloody remains of their comrades and they saw the fugitive survivors fleeing for their lives and they did not see the tired, hurting Lebanians, they saw a legend marching out of the morning mist, banners flying and trumpets playing. In that moment, they forgot that they faced mortal men and in their mind's eye, saw an invincible, unstoppable host bearing down on them. And in that moment, spooked by their own imagination they broke and melted away before the Lebanian advance.

As they returned to their city, the Lebanians could scarcely bear to celebrate; exhausted as they were and knowing how many of their comrades lay dead on the field. But, the citizens rallied to them and brought them hot soup and bread and balms for their wounds, for they knew that their sacrifice had not been in vain, that even through the Commonwealth was lost, Lebane's freedom had been won.

And so it came to pass, for though the power of Lebane had been shattered forever and her generals forced in exile by the peace treaty, there was nobody willing to enforce a final defeat. There was nobody willing to lay siege to her walls, nobody willing to risk giving battle again, on the slopes of Traftin Valley.


End file.
